


lay down your guns

by buckyjerkbarnes



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling, F/M, Gen, Healing, Reunions, Touch-Starved, it is also done off-screen, karen finds and takes in a dog, kastle reunion we all deserved, minor warning for animal abuse but not by a main character, post-Punisher s1, they’re so in love oh man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyjerkbarnes/pseuds/buckyjerkbarnes
Summary: Never let it be said that Frank half-assed anything, especially when it came to Karen. He found the largest batch of white roses that the nearest flower shop carried without having to do a special order, a grand affair that, to his count, contained over two and a half dozen blooms. He didn’t spare a look at the price tag, just carried them up to the cashier.“Wow,” the woman behind the counter deadpanned, giving him a hard look over. Despite himself, Frank was abruptly reminded of Maria and her uncanny ability to see though every single layer of his bullshit without the bat of an eye. “How bad did you fuck up?”“You think you could gift wrap those, ma’am?” Frank prompted, thumbing through his wallet for the appropriate bills.The woman snapped her gum, snorting, sliding off her stool and heading for the line of vases a few feet away. “That bad, huh.”Frank didn’t dignify that with a response.[Or: Frank comes to his senses, Karen saves a dog, and we all get the Kastle reunion we deserve.]





	lay down your guns

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy the second fic within a week, you wonderful, wonderful people.

The day he was freed— that Frank Castle was the one to hit the ground and Pete Castiglione was the one that walked away— he wanted nothing more than to go right to Karen’s and just hold her. Just hold her close and know that she was alright, to let her know that he, in return, was something like okay, too.

But he didn’t.

His face was still being plastered all over every news branch in New York. He was beat to shit with more bruises and cuts and abrasions than actual, unblemished skin. Frank looked like he was about one step away from being delivered to hell in a hand basket and even though it was over, everything felt _over_ , he couldn’t risk it.

Frank refused to risk Karen.

So he stayed away.

 

*

 

(Frank was weak. He went to her place one night right after New Years and saw a string of colored lights still strung around her living room, twinkling warmly at him from the rooftop.

The pot of roses was on the windowsill, visibly wilted and more than half-dead.

It hurt more seeing them there than if the space had been filled with nothing at all.)

 

*

 

In the quiet of the night, when it’s just him and the swirled drywall of his ceiling staring back at each other in a futile match of wills, Frank can’t shake the way Karen had pressed close in the elevator. The way she’d let him into her space, let him rest his forehead against hers and just gave him the opportunity to share the same air as her. How the blue of her blouse made her eyes look even more saturated with the most brilliant color he’d ever seen, how tears clung to the ends of his eyelashes and fell over the edge of hers when she forced herself to pull away.

Frank was pretty sure he could have lived in that bubble with her, their lives paused thanks to the emergency stop handle, as long as she wanted. He knew that if she hadn’t been the one to take the step back, he would have loitered there, thrumming with relief of having her whole and safe before him, close enough to touch and smell, until someone pried open the mouth of the elevator and put a bullet in his head.

He wished he could have drawn that moment out longer than half a minute, held her a little closer.

He sometimes thinks, when his mind won’t shut down for the night and he’s tired enough to actually believe it, that Karen wouldn’t have minded lengthening the moment, either.

Frank had a lot of things he wished for he knew he’d never get. It’s an old song and dance, dealing with that bitch called Hopelessness.

 

*

 

He read each and every one of her articles, grabbing a copy of the _Bulletin_ and scanning the black and white newsprint until he found her name. Frank liked to read the words she used, felt a surge of pride whenever something she’d crafted in those determined hands of hers was placed out in the world for others to see.

It’s a dull Thursday morning in March when he found Karen did a spread on local veteran groups, when he saw Curtis’s name crop up in the text, explaining how group therapy was so crucial to talking about your demons, how it could help you get a little less lost in your own head knowing others who’ve dealt with similar situations were just as lost as you. She listed the numbers of both the local VA and the business number to get in touch with Curtis on the chance anyone was looking for help.

“Atta girl,” Frank murmured, brushing his thumb over her name at the top of the piece.

He went for the pair of scissors he kept in his bathroom, trimming the article out of the paper and putting it in a manilla envelope with the rest. 

 

*

 

He grew back that stupid hipster beard, let his hair grow out, too. The public did not know him like this— he had to let Pete Castiglione, a quiet man, a man who did not know violence or destruction or loss, who had no war to wage to emerge into the open. He had to learn to sit down after he’d spent so long running. 

No matter how Leo and Zack pestered him, Frank was not going to tie back his hair in a fucking _man bun_.

 

*

Miraculously, life had been easier living as a man with a battle to fight rather than as a man without a war.

Frank felt a sort of calm he’d never known with everyone who had a hand in his family’s murders in the ground: his fight was one of victory, David had gotten to go home at long last, and Russo would lay in that hospital bed, caught in a vicious limbo that was both cruel and not cruel enough of a punishment for all he’d done. He went back to his tiny apartment with his full bed and his stack of paperbacks and his old alarm clock. He found another construction job to generate a bit of income. He even went so far as to go to a thrift store and buy a record player, to load up on a bunch of vinyls he’d not listened to since he was fresh out of high school and about to start basic training.

Without a constant war to be waged, Frank had a great deal of free time.

He was, more often than not, left alone with his thoughts.

More often than not, Frank recalled the quiet conversation he and Sarah had shared:

_The only way out is to find something that you care about._

_Have you found something to do that for you?_

_Maybe,_ Frank had told her, thinking of his face buried in a warm shoulder, the wind coming off the water in the early morning, his mouth pressing to a soft cheek, a driven voice in a diner ripped apart by a firefight. _Maybe_.

Frank was pretty sure he was going to drown in maybes.

 

*

 

Once, and only once, Frank went down to their bench down by the water front. It had been seven months since they’d met here last and four months since he’d actually seen her face, long enough that, at the hour, Frank believed that he’d have the bench to himself.

He was wrong.

Karen had her hair tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck, the up-do lose and the lukewarm wind of the early spring threatened to tug errant strands of her hair out and let them flutter around her cheeks. She kept her gaze trained straight ahead, her purse on her lap beneath one of her arms with a styrofoam cup of coffee held between her hands. With her legs crossed at the knee, so still she might have been a hyperrealistic painting, she was the most beautiful thing he’d seen since, well.

Since the last time Frank saw her in his hindsight, hauling his half-broken body into the elevator duct.

It would have been so easy to just step out of the shadows, to walk right up behind her and curl a hand to her shoulder. She’d lean into him, would let him curl over her and rest his face in her hair.

He watched her go, about twenty minutes later, and felt something like a sob trying to wrench its way out of his throat.

 

*

 

(See, whether he’s Frank Castle or Pete Castiglione, he knows he’ll never be good enough for Karen Page. It’s a fact, like the sky is blue and the grass is green. They’ll probably start teaching it to kids when they enter kindergarten, even.)

 

*

 

Frank stayed away.

And kept staying.

And kept at it until it’s been just over half a year and the weather in New York was less freeze your ass off walking down the street and more sweat your balls off just walking down a flight of stairs. It’s got nothing on the heatwave they’d had when he’d first met Karen, but it’s close and it doesn’t stop him from—

David took one look at him and tossed his hands up. “Frank, what the hell.” Not even an audible question mark tacked on the end. “It’s ninety degrees and you’re in all black _and_ jeans.”

Frank cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like I own a pair of cargo shorts, David?”

That brought the other man up short, enough to trigger a snort of exasperation. “Well, you could borrow a pair of mine so you don’t get heat stroke, so there’s an idea.”

Frank bumped his boot into David’s shin, his mouth twitching at the corners. “As though Sarah hasn’t stitched your name into the lining of your waistband. I’ll take my chances. Thanks, though.”

David allowed a dopey grin at the mention of his wife. At the moment, Sarah had taken the kids to see a movie, some summer blockbuster that was probably seventy percent over-priced action sequences and thirty percent shitty dialogue to give him and Frank a bit of time to catch up. Frank appreciated the notion and it was why he’d allowed himself to be wrestled into staying for dinner.

“I’ve gotta ask, Frank,” David tipped back a mouthful of his beer, swallowing a few degrees harder than normal. “Have you done it?”

Frank paused in picking at the edge of the label, brow furrowing. “Done what?”

David gave his eyes a hard roll around his skull, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet. “Called your girlfriend, man. Karen Page— you called her?”

His mouth tightened, just for a beat, before he let his breath slip though his teeth, slow and measured. His face had healed somewhere around the four and a half month mark and he could go down a crowded street in Hell's Kitchen without anyone looking at him suspiciously, no matter how keen the eye. “Let it go, man.”

“Frank—,” David tried to press.

He slammed the flat of his hand on the Lieberman’s pristine kitchen island, jabbing a steady finger at David. “Let it go,” Frank repeated, clenching his fingers around the neck of his beer bottle.

This was not the first time David had tried to breach this particular topic of conversation. By this point, with any mention of Karen that wasn’t in his own head, it had become instinctual to sever the thread of thought before it could begin to unravel out of his control.

David planted his feet, cocking his head to the left challengingly. His pouf of hair followed a half a second later. “No.”

He straightened. “No?” Frank echoed.

David sighed, rucking a hand through his wild curls. “I’m not going to stand here and play Telephone with you, Frank. You heard me.” He shuffled his feet again, ignoring the clench to Frank’s jaw, the whiteness of his curled knuckles. It’s almost refreshing to see the little shit wasn’t intimidated by him anymore. “It’s been six months… If anyone was going to go after her, they’d have done it already.”

“David…”

“Just— just think about it, will you? You drop in here at least twice a month, right? Right. And in all that time, no one has even come breaking down the door to try to get to me or Sarah or the kids to get to you. Can you agree that’s true?”

Frank, absurdly, felt like he was back on the stand, being drilled by the prosecutor once more. Only this time, Karen wasn’t watching him from the defense bench, anxiously biting her lip and scribbling down notes, nudging Nelson’s side to get his attention. She was too far for him to touch, out of his sight, probably about to start her lunch break. “You just don’t stop, do you?”

“Yes,” David said, on a louder level than he’d used thus far. “Yes, David, that _is_ true. _”_ He extended an open palm forward Frank. “Thank _you_ for your response.” The hand dropped back to the counter with an inelegant smack. “Look, you still read her articles, right? Probably go from roof to roof to make sure no one gets to her on her walk back from work.” He hadn’t done that in a while, no matter how much he wanted to.

David’s face creased with upset. “What’s stopping you?”

“A helluva lot I don’t want to talk about.”

“If not now, when?”

Frank ran a hard hand over his face, breathing out hard into his palms before he removed them and leveled David with a glare. “You’ve been talking to Curt, haven’t you?”

“On occasion,” he allowed easily. They could have been talking about the heatwave for how casual David sounded. “When we both get too frustrated individually and try to combine our mutual frustrations to help you.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, you don’t have to. I’m fine.”

David cast a significant look to his left, across the kitchen and into the living room at the Lieberman family portrait. He appeared to draw strength from it, found himself grounded in it. “Frank,” David said gently. “People like us? We were never meant to get a second chance, but here we are, on the other side of things. Don’t waste the time you’re given. I hoard every minute I have with my family like it’s going to be my last, man. I’ve got a pot of gold so deep at this point, I’m well on the way to being the richest man alive.

“You told me, once, that Karen was like family. I specifically remember her equating her importance to you as being like Sarah to me. You know how much I love my wife, what I’d do for her, what I’ve already done for her and you have all that in you for Karen.” David rounded the island, bare feet padding quietly on the tile. Frank allowed himself to be taken by the shoulders, for David to give him hard, pointed shake. “You don’t find those types of feelings everyday, we both know that. So quit being such a self-sacrificing asshole and go get your lady, yeah?” 

Frank flicked his eyes up from where he’d trained them on a small mustard stain on David’s shirt. They hadn’t even eaten anything with mustard in it. Let his gaze settle on David’s too open, too expressive face. “Yeah,” Frank mumbled. “Alright.”

He downed the rest of his beer, snagging David’s, too, for good measure, and left right after.

 

*

 

Never let it be said that Frank half-assed anything, especially when it came to Karen. He found the largest batch of white roses that the nearest flower shop carried without having to do a special order, a grand affair that, to his count, contained over two and a half dozen blooms. He didn’t spare a look at the price tag, just carried them up to the cashier.

“Wow,” the woman behind the counter deadpanned, giving him a hard look over. Despite himself, Frank was abruptly reminded of Maria and her uncanny ability to see though every single layer of his bullshit without the bat of an eye. “How bad did you fuck up?”

“You think you could gift wrap those, ma’am?” Frank prompted, thumbing through his wallet for the appropriate bills.

The woman snapped her gum, snorting, sliding off her stool and heading for the line of vases a few feet away. “That bad, huh.”

Frank didn’t dignify that with a response, telling her to keep the change once he had the flowers in hand, done up in a squat, wide-mouthed vase that was painted with a nice white and blue design. He didn’t bother getting a personalized name card: he was going to present them to her in person— she would be fully aware who they were from.

He took a cab to Hell’s Kitchen, arriving outside of her apartment right around five, some twenty minutes before she got off work. As easy as it would have been for him to pick her lock, to slip into her place quietly as to avoid unwanted stares, Frank didn’t want to invade her space, not if there was a chance she wouldn’t want him there. He ended up sitting down with his back against her door, the vase settled at his side as to avoid accidentally tipping it over or smashing any of the full, pale blooms by accident.

By the time he heard the familiar click of heels coming up the stairwell, Frank’s hands had clammed up and he was dangerously close to booking it to the elevator, leaving the flowers in his wake.

He stood didn’t go, couldn’t, not when Karen pushed into the hall and came up short at the sight of him. She’d let her hair down for the day, so it fluttered into her face and around her shoulders and her blouse was a pale pink that brought out the flush of her cheeks, that made Frank’s heart notch up in pace.

“Hey,” Frank said, lamely, climbing to his feet and stooping to pick up the flowers all in one go. He wanted to say _I’m sorry_ and _If you want me to leave, I will_ and _I never meant to hurt you, Karen, I swear to god._ His throat wouldn’t force any of those to the surface, though, wouldn’t allow his vocal chords the autonomy to voice them.

Karen still hadn’t moved, staring like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe that’s what he should have let himself become to her— someone who she’d lost, someone who faded away.

And then like she’d been shocked, Karen's body became reanimated as she moved up to the door, digging around in her bag for her keys. He heard the shift of an almost empty tin of mints get tossed around, the crinkle of receipts and stray sticky notes, the dull clatter of pens, the tinkle of coins in her wallet all coming together in her search. Frank looked away— she was too bright and he was starting to feel a whole lot like Icarus flying too close to the sun— and she let out a little noise of triumph. He didn’t hold back a small, small smile at her minor victory.

The next hurdle came when she tried to actually unlock the door. The keys rattled loudly in Karen’s shaking hands and she would have fumbled them if he hadn’t been there to grab them before they smacked into the ground. He found the key she’d been looking for, put it into the slot and undid the tumbler. Karen’s throat worked, hard and she slipped inside.

She didn’t slam the door in his face. Frank took that as a silent invitation to follow her in.

He stepped immediately on a squeaky ball and the sound was like a gunshot in the quiet between them. Frank’s forehead furrowed, nudging the toy with his toe as he carried the flowers to the counter for them to be moved further at her own discretion. There was a water and food bowl near the stovetop, a dog bed beside her desk with a stuffed blue bear laying face-down, discarded there and awaiting its next pick up.

The pup was nearly as orange as the fruit of the same name, a white splotch across his chest, roused by both the sound of the door opening and the disturbance of the toy. If he had to try and guess a breed, he’d definitely put his money on Pitbull, with a frame so thin Frank could count nearly every rib in his body. He looked to Karen, saw her already looking back at him with her arms folded.

“I found him being beaten by a couple of asshole kids in an alley,” Karen explained quietly. “Just teenagers. Stupid, stupid teenagers.”

He didn’t move right away, didn’t want to startle the creature. Frank nodded at her purse, the object in question splayed open on the counter from where she’d put it down. “You pull that .380 on them?”

Karen, bless her, looked _smug._ “Maybe,” she said, a touch lofty. “I didn’t shoot them, but I   nearly made all three of them shit themselves.”

“Good,” he murmured. Frank could almost see the whole thing happen in his head: Karen, just out of work, probably tired and wanting nothing more than to get takeout and drink a beer before heading to bed, when she came up on a pack of shitheads abusing this dog, _Karen’s_ soon to be dog, and she just snaps. Her aimed would have been steady, she’d have probably started the conversation by cocking the hammer of the gun.  “They leave skid marks hauling ass away from you?”

She smiled, not nearly as large as he wished she would and her eyes were so blue that Frank wanted nothing more than to just dive into them for as long as she’d allow. “Like something out of _Looney Toons_.”

Frank huffed out a laugh as he squatted down, making soft smooching noises to get the little creature’s attention. It’s eyes were staring at him and past him and its steps were feeble, as  if trying to make out the lay of the ground. “Is he—?”

“Blind?” Karen finished, appearing at his side, kneeling in her pencil skirt at his left. She tapped out a louder, clearer beat on the floor and the pup stepped closer, close enough for her to scratch him behind the ears. The whipcord of a tail wagged delightedly under her ministrations. “Yeah. The vet I’ve been taking him to says that he was born with the condition. It’s why he wasn’t able to defend himself from those kids or, at least, a really big part of the reason why.”

Frank reached out and rubbed the pup under the chin, shifting so he was sitting on his ass with his legs spread out. The pup moved closer, bumping his head into Frank’s palm before sniffing his wrist, the hem of his jacket sleeve, and gave a timid, experimental lick. Another sniff, another nudge before the pup was brave enough to move in and lick the side of Frank’s face.

No matter how badly his stomach was done up in knots, how much he was sweating out of sheer nervousness under his clothes, Frank had always had very little willpower when faced with a cute dog. The laugh that left him was almost unconscious. “Little man got a name?”

“Ray,” Karen said.

Frank glanced at her, a touch incredulous. She was so close and still she did not make any contact with him. “You named the dog after Ray Charles?”

She shoved him, not hard enough to hurt, of course, but enough to make him smirk. Karen’s mouth twitched despite herself. “I didn’t name my blind dog after a blind musician, Frank. I named him Ray because he likes to lay in the sun— Ray? Sun rays? I found him at the tail end of that last snow storm we had in late March. He was trembling like you wouldn’t believe… I splurged on a bunch of sweaters that fit him and I got him another dog bed for my room in front of the window so he’d always have some place to be in the sun.”

Ray, seemingly satisfied that he’d met the stranger in his home, gingerly sensed his way though the living room and to the kitchen, moving a few steps and altering his course if he gently bumped into anything. He never whined in pain and, once he had found his empty food dish, sat down at its side and waited patiently for Karen to rise and fill it. She pushed herself up, moving before Frank could stand and offer her a hand, toeing off her practical heels at the left end of the couch.

Karen cooed and hummed at Ray, opening the cabinet under the sink and dipping out a heaping of dried food for him, filling up his water dish while he went to town on his dinner.

“He was about two months old when I found him,” she murmured, after a minute of quiet “The vet puts him at about four and a half, now.” The blatant embodiment of time passing between them was happily crunching his kibble. Frank flinched, as though he’d been struck by one of Red’s nunchucks right in the solar plexus.

She rounded on him so fast, Frank thought for a fleeting instant she was going cross the room to sucker punch him. “Where the hell have you been, Frank?” Karen asked him. Something behind his ribs hollowed out at the fact there was more sadness in her voice than there was anger. Fuck, he would rather she be angry with him. “I thought you got locked up or— or Madani had someone bury you in as much red tape as possible.”

“Frank Castle is dead,” he told her. “Pete Castiglione, however, has no criminal record, a social security number, the whole nine. The CIA were very determined to get out clean.”

Karen sank down on one end of the couch and he took up the other, leaving a fair gap of space between them, but nothing too far that he couldn’t cross. “You had a pass from the CIA. And you still didn’t…”

“I had to grow my hair out,” Frank said, his explanation practically ripped from him at her audible hurt. _She thinks I didn’t want to come back. She thinks that I didn’t want to see her._ “And needed time for my beard to come in again. And, at the time, I was more bruise than man. I didn’t want to drag you back into this,” he told her, fierce in his conviction. “You were held at gun point by a _bomber,_ Karen. I didn’t know if someone was going to come after you, if someone might try to hurt you because of me. I— I couldn’t— If someone hurt you, if someone—”

“Frank,” Karen said softly, her hand trembling at the fingertips as she reached out to touch at his chin, moving up, cupping at his jaw. She was so warm and at each point her skin pressed into his, there were sparks of electricity humming in his long dormant cells, reviving him, bringing him back to life like some bastardized modern Prometheus. “ _Frank,_ look at me. Please.”

He did. Frank could never deny her.

“I would rather have you here with all the risks than not have you at all,” she claimed, holding his eyes the whole time as to expunge any room for doubt. Karen was still holding his face in her hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so warm, so god damn _full_. “I’m so glad you’re safe, that you’ve been out of danger these last few months, but Jesus, it would have been so much better if you’d just given me some kind of sign.

“I never wanted to be away from you for so long,” he whispered in the space between. Frank couldn’t ignore the dampness in his eyes, now, can’t set aside the glassiness of hers, either. “What can I do? What can I do to show you how sorry I am, huh? Name it, whatever it is.”

And Karen gave him an angelic, beaming smile, choking out a strangled noise that slammed right into his sternum. “Stay,” she said, curling forward and letting her forehead fall into his, their brows aligned, the ends of their noses parallel. They’re in almost the same position as they were in the elevator, only he was not on the run and he was not bleeding out and while Karen was shaking, it was not out of residual shock. “You can stay.”

“Okay,” he whispered, as if there was ever a chance he could be dragged away again, as if there was ever any doubt. Frank nodded for emphasis, though, and the motion moved Karen’s head, as well. “I’ll stay. I’ve seen what I become when I try and keep away from you. You… you make me better, sweetheart. You make me better want to _be_ better.”

Karen made a sound that resembled his name and then she tipped her chin the remaining centimeters to cover his lips with her own.

Her mouth was warm and soft against his and so close like this, the lavender of her soap and the vanilla of her perfume and the smell of the city that clung to them both was the most intoxicating scent he’d ever smelt. Frank threaded his fingers through her hair, gently holding her head in his hands as he learned the taste of her mouth, the feel of her tongue moving with his own. Karen let out a whine and he trailed a hand down her back, over the dip of her spine.

She settled so she was straddling his lap, the hot weight of her everything and more. HIs hands roamed, touching at her thighs, lingering around her hipbones which fit in his palms as though they were made to be held by him. He and Karen both groaned lowly when she shifted her weight and brushed his groin, made tight and borderline uncomfortable caught in the confines of his jeans.

When she began to move for the button of his pants, Frank brought one of his hands down to stop her with a touch at her wrist. As much as he wanted her— he would always want her, especially in the most primal of ways— he was exhausted. All afternoon he’d riled himself up for disappointment and his blood had flooded with something like adrenaline on the off-chance everything went piss-poor and he was made to turn tail: the chemicals were fading, leaving him drained.

Karen deserved more than a tired fuck. Frank told her as much and she blushed a gorgeous pink when he said _fuck_. He traced his hand up and down her side, fingers lingering along her ribs before he held her hips, dipping in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her jaw. She sighed so sweetly. If Karen didn’t already have his heart in her hand, he’d have given it to her gladly, right then.

“I wanna make it good for you,” he said. “I wanna make it so good.”

She kissed him again, deeper, slower. “You will,” Karen whispered, holding the side of his face in her palm, brushing his hair back with the other. “I know you will.”

From outside of the bubble they’d managed to form around themselves, a piercing squeaking began to strike up. Ray had settled himself in the middle of the floor, the same ball Frank nearly  killed himself on when he first stepped inside settled between his paws. A laugh bubbled out of Karen’s throat as she looked over her shoulder then back to Frank. He thumbed at the laughter lines at the corners of her eyes, at the small parenthesis at the edges of her mouth.

“We’ll have to take Ray for a walk,” Karen told him, bumping her nose into his and he barely withheld a grin at how breathless she was, at how he’d been the one to take her breath away.

“I can take him, if you’d like,” Frank offered, brushing a lock of hair out of her face and nudging it behind her ear. He let his fingertips drag over her cheek, down the slope of her jaw.

“No,” she said softly, tugging him in with a hooked finger below his chin. She tasted no less sweet this time around. “I don’t really want to let you out of my sight.”

So they take the pup for a walk, Frank holding the leash, Karen holding his free hand, her fingers curled through his, her thumb idly tracing over the ridges of his knuckles. He took a great deal of delight in the blush coloring her face whenever he brought their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss into the back of her palm.

He didn’t have any clothes to change into and Karen was very insistent they share her bed— he was glad for it, because he’d probably end up pulling a chair in from the living room and parking it beside her mattress sometime in the night, otherwise. Frank kicked off his boots beside a pair of her bedroom slippers, draping his coat and shirt over a nearby chair. She disappeared into the bathroom and came out in an oversized shirt emblazoned with FAGAN CORNERS, VERMONT in deep green. One day, he’ll ask her about her home town, if she had family there, still, what she’d liked about it, what she hated. For the moment, he watched her, enthralled in the willowy lines of her, and offered Karen a lopsided grin.

“You don’t have to sleep in your pants,” she assured him. 

“Didn’t wanna presume,” Frank murmured. He shucked off his jeans, throwing those over his jacket and shirt. “What side do you prefer?”

“Right,” Karen said. “Closest to the window.”

That was good— the left gave him a decent view of the front door and the other bathroom, where there was a window someone could bust in if they scaled the side of the building. They slipped into the their respective positions, facing each other, Frank on one pillow, Karen on another. He was perfectly content to watch her—the flutter of her lashes, the way her hair moved as she breathed, the rise and fall of the sheets over her stomach.

“Come here,” she urged, opening her arms for him. Karen tugged him until he was partially on top of her, his head and shoulder resting on her chest, an arm slung around her middle with a leg hitched up and over her thigh. She didn’t seem at all adverse to his pressing her into the mattress and he could have even sworn he heard her let out a contented hum.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” Karen confessed, confirming his suspicions.

He tipped his head up, chin digging slightly into her breast. “What’s that?”

“This,” she murmured, her fingers dancing over his temple. “Just hold onto you.”

He didn’t think he’d ever tire of touching her, of being touched by her. Frank’s eyes shuttered closed when Karen began to card her fingers through his hair, letting her nails catch lightly on the nearly-healed scar above his right ear.

The combination of Karen’s careful ministrations and the tiredness that had been nipping at his heels was starting to catch up with him, was starting to make his eyelids heavy and his body sleep-warm and limp. It was a futile fight, however, before he let his body rest, he told her: “Thank you for letting me stay.”

As he pushed off the shores of consciousness, Frank was very sure she said, tender as anything:  “You’re welcome here with me, always. Always, Frank.”

 

*

 

Frank had not slept through an entire night for over a decade, not unless he was doped up on pain killers and medically made to be knocked out for a reasonable period.

Tonight, his rest was soundless, peaceful.

 

*

 

When Frank woke the next morning, it’s to his face buried in soft blonde hair, his arm curled around a thin frame with one of Karen’s legs threaded between both of his. She’d tucked her head under his chin at some point during the night, nose cool against his throat. If he was still enough, Frank could feel each time she inhaled, the precious expansion of her diaphragm against him. The sweet smell of her skin wound up his nose and she shifted in his arms, curling closer, her fingers flexing unconsciously where they settled just above the small of his back. At the foot of the bed, Ray was curled up, his head resting on Frank’s foot, ears perked even in sleep. The sun was just starting to get high enough to slant over the roofs of the surrounding buildings and the city outside was none the wiser to this precious thing they had.

Once she stirred, he hoped she’d kiss him again, that she’d allow him to kiss her, and they’d stay curled up with one another until she absolutely had to get up and go to work. Maybe she’d call in sick, maybe she’d be all his for the day. Either way, Frank planned to cook breakfast for her, would probably sneak Ray some leftovers out the pan when Karen wasn’t looking and she would humor him in pretending she didn’t see.

Frank pressed his lips to her hairline, exhaled softly.

He could get used to this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ fypoedameron
> 
> I literally binge-watched the Punisher all last weekend and had finished it literally within thirty-six hours of it being released and this idea has been rattling around in my head ever since. I was kind of mad, actually, that Karen didn't show up at the end of the episode. Like, Frank puts all this emphasis on living a life without a war, having the time to actually live and??? Where's??? Karen??? I thought all the Kastle-related scenes were super well done and Jon and Deb's acting was AMAZING. The elevator scene, guys. My heart hurt for them both. I have hope that there relationship will only grow and be nourished as time goes on so, I'm willing to be patient and see where the showrunners take us! 
> 
> Also the pup I described is actually based on a dog I wanted to adopt about two months ago, but my mom is nowhere near as patient as Karen and didn't think it was a good idea to take in a blind dog. I can't get his little face out of my head, so I've put it here for the rest of ya'll to see, too. 
> 
> Be happy, be warm, and be kind. See you all soon!


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